


Bodhisattva, Would You Take Me By the Hand

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Scheming, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:36:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson's got a boyfriend. 3,181 words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodhisattva, Would You Take Me By the Hand

  


**Title:** Bodhisattva, Would You Take Me By the Hand  
 **Author:** [](http://nightdog-barks.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**nightdog_barks**](http://nightdog-barks.dreamwidth.org/) , with a significant contribution from [](http://deelaundry.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.dreamwidth.org/)  
 **Characters:** Wilson, House, an OMC.  
 **Rating:** A soft R for men in bed and some graphically descriptive language.  
 **Warnings:** Yes, for men in bed and some graphically descriptive language.  
 **Spoilers:** No.  
 **Summary:** Wilson's got a boyfriend. 3,181 words.  
 **Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em. Never will.  
 **Author Notes:** This fic is an AU, in a slightly different present, with some recognizable events in canon either not happening or happening in marginally different ways. Title and cut-text are from the Steely Dan song [_Bodhisattva_](http://www.lyricsdepot.com/steely-dan/bodhisattva.html).  
 **Beta:** My intrepid First Readers, with especial thanks to [](http://deelaundry.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.dreamwidth.org/) , who knew you can't handle a House with kid gloves.

**_Bodhisattva, Would You Take Me By the Hand_ **

His name was Jesse, because everybody was naming their kids Jesse that year. He was part of what they later called _Gen S_ , that flotilla of thousands of babies born nine months after the Third Gulf of Sidra Incident, when the Libyans nuked Marseilles and everyone thought the world was going to end and then it didn't. He had long blond hair that he kept tied back with a length of leather shoelace cord, and blue eyes that some might describe as _cornflower_ , and he was tall running to lean. He was from California, and possessed the loose-limbed grace peculiar to the natives of that state. His favorite poet was A.E. Housman; his favorite film, _Citizen Kane_. Wilson was sleeping with him. House hated him. Other than that, everything was great.

* * *

"I'm just sleeping with him, House, I'm not going to marry him," Wilson said. He was trying to stab the cherry tomato on his plate with his fork and it kept rolling away.

"Maybe you _should_ marry him," House said. "Then you could divorce him, because that's how all your marriages end up."

Wilson gritted his teeth and stabbed at the tomato one more time. It skittered away across the plate, so he gave up and speared a chunk of cucumber instead.

"I'm not going to marry him," he said again.

"I'm just saying you could," House said. He'd long since finished his burger and fries and didn't want any of Wilson's salad.

"And that would make you happy."

"When you divorced him, yeah."

"Do you even listen to yourself?" Wilson laid down his fork and dabbed at his lips with his napkin. "I gotta go. I'm meeting Jesse for handball."

 _"I'm meeting Jesse for handball,"_ House singsonged. "Is that what you kids are calling it these days?"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Goodbye, House," he said. He started to turn away, then turned back. "Foosball tonight?"

House was staring off into space. He made a grunting sound. Wilson took it as a _yes_.

* * *

House was reading his dad's book when Wilson came in. It wasn't really his dad's -- they knew that now, but for the sake of shorthand it was "your dad's book." House had read it four or five times now that Wilson knew of. This was the copy with the _Golden Bowl_ dust jacket.

"Why are you reading that again?" Wilson asked. He set his briefcase on his desk and took off his hat. It was his new Borsalino hat and he liked it, liked the way it felt on his head, liked the way he could tilt it just so. Jesse liked it, too -- he said it made Wilson look dapper, like a young Bobby DeNiro in a Scorsese film. Jesse had been a film student at UC Berkeley for a while, and he could say these kinds of things without sounding like an absolute tool. House, of course, thought he sounded like an absolute tool. "And why aren't you sitting behind my desk?"

House turned a page. "Because you get all huffy when I sit at your desk."

"Since when do you care that I get huffy? Which I do not, by the way."

"Could you shut up? I'm reading."

Wilson sighed. He realized he was doing a lot of sighing these days. "And you're reading that again why?"

"I'm looking for clues." House turned another page.

"But ... it's not your dad's book."

House finally looked up. His eyes glinted owlishly through his reading glasses. "Makes it more difficult, doesn't it?" he said.

* * *

Jesse was holding Wilson's hand. In public.

Wilson wasn't sure how he felt about this. He knew he should feel _something_ , but at the same time a little voice in his head kept saying "Shut up! Stop analyzing everything!" Besides, the sun was warm on his face, and he could hear the sea, so he decided to listen to the little voice for once.

"I told you you'd like this place," Jesse said. There was no smugness in his voice, only a simple certainty. _This place_ was a farmhouse on Cape May, converted to a restaurant at the height of the locavore craze, growing its own herbs and vegetables in backyard gardens the diners could tramp through. Jesse had worked there for a few years and still knew the manager. All three of them were sitting on the lawn in Adirondack chairs by the kitchens. Wilson's stomach was now full of ricotta gnocchi, a hearts of palm salad with pickled ramps, and wild mushroom flatbread. Jesse had had the artisan cheese board and an asparagus salad with quail eggs and toasted pine nuts. He hadn't tried to steal any of Wilson's food. And he was holding Wilson's hand.

The manager's name was Kate, and she was smoking something hand-rolled. It didn't smell like marijuana, but it didn't smell quite like tobacco either.

Kate blew out a long streamer of smoke. "Jess," she said. "You sure you don't want to come back? Don't you miss us?" She smiled to show the question wasn't serious.

"I do miss you," Jesse said. "You, and Alex, and Desi, and Raj, and -- "

Something cold and wet nudged Wilson's free hand, and he jumped, startled.

"And Badge," Jesse said. "Hey, boy," he said to the dog, a heavyset animal that looked like a cross between a black bear and a seal. The dog opened its mouth; an astonishingly pink tongue lolled out and dripped saliva onto Wilson's khakis.

"Oh, Badge," Kate sighed. "Just ignore him, he'll go away."

"Shoo," Wilson said. "Good boy, go away." Instead of going away, the dog pressed closer, warm against Wilson's right thigh, and he found his hand drawn to the dog's thick ruff.

Badge's fur was soft, and Wilson sank his fingers into it, feeling the smooth slide of muscle over the scapula and the cervical vertebrae. Badge closed his eyes and panted, lost in canine ecstasy. Jesse gave his hand a gentle squeeze and let go, freeing Wilson to trace a fingertip across the dog's cranium. Badge smelled faintly of rosemary from his traipses through the gardens; Wilson was going to remark on this, but Jesse and Kate were already onto another conversation, this one about pea sprouts and wood-fired lamb meatballs.

"Good boy," Wilson murmured. "Good boy."

* * *

"Do you want to go back?" James asked. "You know, you could go back."

They were in bed. They'd both been reading -- Jesse was one of those rare guys who didn't fall asleep right after sex, and James was another. It was one of the many things Jesse liked about him, and he knew James enjoyed these chances to talk at the end of a day.

Jesse let his issue of _Sacred Hoop_ rest in his lap. He'd been reading about urban shamanism and drum-making, spirit blessings and Mircea Eliade.

"Do you want me to go?" he said.

James' face flooded red. "No!" he said. "No, I don't. I want you to stay. I just thought ... if you'd be happier someplace else ... "

Jesse sighed. Sometimes he really didn't understand James. At least this was something more than the time he'd tossed the banana skins in the bedroom wastebasket or loaded the dishwasher the wrong way. The dishwasher, though, he could understand. Jesse was pretty sure _feng shui_ counted even in kitchen appliances.

"I'm happy here," he said. He flipped the magazine closed and turned on his side. His _chamsa_ amulet slid off his chest and lay on the sheet, a small silver hand on a thin curb chain. "I'm happy here," he said again. "I'm happy with you. I think the question is -- are _you_ happy?"

"I'm happy," James insisted. "I'm ... " He hesitated. "I'm _really_ happy."

"And you're afraid it's all going to go away."

"No! I mean ... it's just that ... " He pinched at the bridge of his nose. Jesse waited. "My happiness is ... " he started again, then trailed off.

"Is making other people unhappy," Jesse finished. He decided against pointing out how fundamentally fucked-up this was. Instead, he said, “Happiness never _decreases_ by being shared. Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened.” He nodded. The wisdom of Siddhartha always got to him.

"Huh," James said. "That's ... kind of nice. But ... House doesn't like to share."

Jesse sighed. This was going to be a tough nut to crack. "Turn over," he said. "I'll rub your back."

As he'd suspected, James' shoulders were tight, hunched with tension. Jesse moved closer, dug his thumbs into the stiff muscles. As James slowly began to relax, he kept talking.

"You are coming to the opening tomorrow night, right?" Jesse had a show opening of his photographs, a series called _Eight Notes on a Scale_ , at a gallery in New York. The gallery was on Spring Street, just off Elizabeth and the Bowery Ballroom -- it was considered a good location and he was confident he'd get some good press. It was how he and James had met, at a gallery in Tribeca doing an exhibit on the '60s counter-cultural activist scene in San Francisco and showing Costa-Gavras' _Z_ as some kind of statement on oppression. James had come for the movie, Jesse for the Fillmore East posters; they'd talked about photography, talked some more over dinner at a Greek diner, talked as they were falling into bed in Jesse's loft.

James' skin warmed under his fingers, and he eased up, moving his palm in slow circles over James' back as he thought about the show. His mom Miriam was flying in from Newport Beach, and he had to pick her up at the airport tomorrow afternoon.

* * *

"Jesse Davenport," House said. He didn't sound happy.

"Dr. House," Jesse said. "We have to talk."

"No," House said. "We don't."

"You're driving James crazy. And when you drive James crazy, it drives _me_ crazy."

"Well, now see, we have something in common. How about that? Bye now."

Jesse took a breath and counted. When he got to ten he stopped and sat down. House narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything. Jesse took this as a good sign.

"He only likes you because you go to those stupid galleries with him, you know," House said at last.

Jesse hesitated. Hesitation was fatal with someone like House. _Vibrant formula_ , he thought. _Light the thousand candles. Truth is the life of a word._

He took a deep breath and smiled.

"Right," he said. "So my huge Jewish cock has nothing to do with it?" He resisted the urge to look behind him and make sure the office door was closed.

House blinked. He sat back in his chair. "You have a huge cock?"

"Maybe not huge," Jesse said easily, "but definitely above average. Bigger than James'."

House studied him for a while.

"Should you be telling me this?" he said.

 _No way in hell_ , Jesse thought, and for a few seconds he actually thought about getting up and leaving. Then he remembered how stressed James had been lately, and how bad that could be for your chakras. _Fuck it,_ he thought. _It's not like I have to marry this guy._ He pretended to inspect a spot of lint on his jeans, and brushed the imaginary spot away.

"Not that James' is small, per se," he said. "It’s average. But that’s good, because an enormous one is just too uncomfortable in my ass to really be fun."

House leaned forward.

"Wait a minute," he said. " _You’re_ the bottom?"

"Absolutely," Jesse said. He injected a note of insouciant cheerfulness into his voice. "I’m addicted to prostate stimulation. If you’re into pleasure, that’s really where it’s at. You’ve never tried it?"

"I’ve never slept with a guy," House said.

Jesse shook his head. "You don’t have to sleep with a guy," he said. "You’ve jerked off, right? Masturbated? Well, stick your fingers up there and go to town. Hell, or get a girl to do it for you. Seriously, man, prostate play, nothing better." _Sorry, Jenny-wren,_ he thought, and tried to banish the thought of the expression on his Mama Jenny's face if she could hear him talking like this.

House stared at him. "Yeah, I’ll get right on that," he said.

"You should."

There was a seemingly interminable silence, during which Jesse could hear the ambient bustle and hum of the hospital. A disembodied voice paged a Dr. Hanratty to Pediatrics.

"I can’t imagine Wilson topping," House said.

"He’s great at it," Jesse asserted. "Very talented. Not so much experience, but he's getting there."

House seemed to be turning something over, some kernel of a preconception, in his head.

"Don’t tell me that no one tries harder to please his partner in bed," he said.

Jesse chuckled. "Did someone say that about James? Because I don’t see it. He’s sexy and talented, but he’s a greedy bastard. He’s sniffing around for climax number two when I’m still chasing my first." He smiled ruefully. "Damn. Did I say he was a greedy bastard? He's a greedy bastard."

"Ha!" House stabbed a finger in the air. "Multiple orgasms, ha. I always knew he was a girl."

Jesse stretched his legs, interlaced his fingers behind his head. "One thing he is not -- and I would know -– is a girl. Broad shoulders, strong thighs -– _very_ strong thighs, that handball pays off -– and his balls, oh God, perfect size for -– "

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Just shooting the shit. No pun intended."

"That’s not it."

Jesse shrugged. "Okay, all right. I was trying to see if it turned you on. Thank God, it doesn’t."

"What?"

"You’re the most important person in James' life," Jesse said patiently. "I know that, and I'm not going to fight it. But he's a great guy, and a great lay. If you were willing to sleep with him, I wouldn’t stand a chance. But you’re not, so I’ve got something unique to offer." He smiled. Genuinely, this time. "He needs us both, Dr. House."

"You’ve got a lot to offer Wilson that I can’t."

The tightness in Jesse's chest eased. "Careful there, dude. You’re in danger of sounding like a nice guy."

House cocked his head. "Where’s your House?" he said.

"Come on now, you know I don’t have a house," Jesse replied. "I live in a walk-up loft. Share the bedroom with the -- "

"Don’t be dense," House snapped. "Where’s your _House?_ There’s no way you’d know how to handle me this well unless you knew someone like me."

"There’s no one like you, _Greg_ ," Jesse said. He grinned. "You’re one of a kind."

"Cut the bullshit."

"Okay, okay. My sister Natalie. She moved to Hawaii so I don’t get to see her much, which is a shame. Even if she lived here though, I’d never introduce you. You’d hate her, and she’d detest you. Either that, or the two of you would somehow click, and I don’t think America’s ready to be ruled by evil overlords."

"Is anyone ever ready for that?"

"Germany in 1933?"

"Huh," House said. "A Jew with a Hitler joke? Damn, you’re ballsy."

"You don’t know the half of it," Jesse said. "But I’d rather tell you more about James' balls. And awakening his inner Kundalini."

"No," House said firmly. "And no."

* * *

House was putting when Wilson walked into his office.

"About time you showed up," House said. He waggled his golf club, calculated the trajectory the ball would take. "Thought your boyfriend would never leave."

Wilson's face did that goofy _blooph-whut?_ expression. House liked that expression.

"My ... wait. _Jesse_ was here?"

"Yup." He tapped the ball; it bumped its way across the carpet and landed with a _plunk!_ inside the plastic cup. "Unless you've got some _other_ boyfriend you're not telling me -- and him -- about," and okay, maybe that was a bit too arch, but what the hell. He gimped over to the cup and picked up the ball. "Spun some cock-and-bull -- and I do mean _cock_ and bull -- story about how great you are in bed."

Wilson covered his face with both hands. He'd been doing that a lot lately.

"Don't worry," House said. "He doesn't want to marry you."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," Wilson said. His voice was slightly muffled, coming as it was from behind his hands.

"You could have asked _me_ to marry you."

Wilson peeked out from between his fingers, then slowly lowered his hands.

"Would you have said yes?"

"Hell, no," House said. "You're more screwed up than I am."

Wilson's face fell. There was no winning with this guy.

"Maybe," House amended. "If you asked me properly." He paused, wondering how far he could push this. "On bended knee," he said. "In a restaurant."

Somewhat to his surprise, Wilson didn't turn on his heel and walk out _or_ punch him. Instead, he looked like he might smile. Huh. He _could_ push this pretty far.

"With a ring," he said. "And not a cheap one, either." He tossed the golf ball in the air a few times, a casual one-handed juggle. "You should've told me," he said.

The half-smile disappeared. "Told you what? That I'm a forty-something guy still confused about his own sexuality?"

"You've talked to me before."

Wilson sighed, and for a moment House thought he was going to put his hands over his face again. "But not about ... stuff like this," he said. "Whenever I've tried to talk to you about actual feelings before, I've ended up drugged. Or by myself. Or locked in a room with a duck."

"The duck was not my idea," House pointed out.

Wilson sighed again, but he moved to sit down in the chair Jesse Davenport had recently vacated, and that meant he was going to stay. House felt oddly relieved by this development.

"Okay," Wilson said. "Okay, maybe I should have said ... _something_. Maybe I thought you'd figure it out on your own, the way you figure everything out."

"Not everything," House said. " _Mostly_ everything, but not _everything_ -everything."

"Oh, well, I'm glad we got that cleared up," Wilson said. He watched as House set up another putt. "So ... what did we just decide?"

"Open marriage," House said. "Fair's fair."

Wilson nodded. "Okay," he said.

"If we ever divorce, split 50-50, right down the middle."

"Okay," Wilson said again. He looked a little dazed, but possibly that was House's imagination.

House eyed the shot, ball to cup, gauged the angles and curves.

"So ... we're okay, right?"

House didn't look up. "We always have been," he said, and struck the ball solidly. Both men watched as it bounced across the floor.

"Hole in one," House said.

 

 

 

~ fin

 


End file.
